My blog on trying to write a 50K word novel in a month

Chapter Five: “Bad Dog” w/c 2,369

Chapter Five Bad Dog

Flon, Lausanne: Evening of Monday 1st November 2066 First Day of the Full Moon

“You asked to see Lyra, Ma’am?”

Nathalie could tell by the boy’s body language that he had bad news to deliver. He was new to the SCP and knew her only by reputation. That would explain why he was afraid of her. Fear got in the way of following orders and destroyed the ability to use initiative. It was time to turn his fear into respect.

“How long ago did she escape?”

“How did you know…?”

“I asked to see her, not you. You were supposed to be guarding her. You have been sent here by your commanding officer so that I teach you the consequences of your action.”

He stood straight and looked her in the eye while she made him wait, two, three, five seconds.

“What is your name?”

“Jenkins, Ma’am.”

“A Brit. Like Lyra. Is that why you let her escape? Sympathy for a fellow Réfugié Anglais?”

Interesting, his fear was replaced with anger.

“Answer me, Jenkins.”

“I am not a refugee, Ma’am. My father was born here. I was born here.”

“But you’re not Swiss, are you Jenkins?”

“No Ma’am.”

“Because there’s something else different about you, isn’t there? Something standing between you and a sponsor for Swiss citizenship.”

“My Grandfather came to Switzerland in 45 because Cadmus had him on a death list as a race traitor. My grandmother was Indian.”

“And?”

“My Grandfather served in the Crescent War for British Military Intelligence as part of Operation Delphi. He was enhanced, Ma’am, at least that’s what they called it then. He was a Berserker”

Nathalie already knew all this. No one joined her team with her knowing everything about them. Andrew Jenkins had gone through one of the early gene-therapy treatments to enhance his natural aggression and his skill as a soldier by giving him the ability literally to go berserk. Berserkers knew no fear and showed no mercy. Their purpose was to kill so indiscriminately that they would break the spirit of the opposition.

“And you have inherited his Talent?”

“Yes Ma’am, except, I can’t swap out of Berserker mode once it’s triggered. I stay that way until I lose consciousness.”

“Some people would say that makes you a hard man to trust, Jenkins.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, Jenkins, that gives us something in common. Most people find it hard to trust a Lab-Brat who never sleeps and can master any task she’s seen done once.”

Jenkins did his best to hide his surprise at her directness and had the good sense to remain silent.

“So how did little Lyra escape from a fierce Berserker like you?”

“She drugged me, Ma’am.”

“With the drugs you were supposed to be giving her?”

“Yes, Ma’am,”

“Lyra is very pretty, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I mean no, Ma’am. I mean I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

The last comment was delivered with a hint of a grin. Jenkins was smart enough to know he was being played. He would do OK here. And of course, if he survived a nine year term of service in the SCP, he would qualify for Swiss Citizenship.

“Will you send a team after her, Ma’am?”

“No, Jenkins. You and I will deal with this.”

He stood straighter. She could tell that he wanted to salute and was glad that he didn’t.

“Now go and get the guns and let the locals know that we’ll be hitting Flon.”

“How do you know she’s in Flon Ma’am?”

“The place is infested with the worst elements of LesRéfugiés Anglais, violent, angry men with twisted pasts and no future. That’s exactly what she’s looking for.”

*

She had him now. He just didn’t know it yet. The grin on his face said that he still thought that this was about him and what he wanted. Well, that was OK. That was part of the game. Men ready to fuck were even dumber than usual and this one hadn’t been that smart to start with. When she’d picked him, she hadn’t been looking for an intellectual; she’d been looking for a big man with a fat cock and a strong desire to fuck her with it.

His motivation had never been in doubt. His eyes had tracked her breasts from the moment she entered the Britannia Pub. When he realized she was heading straight for him he placed his back against the bar, thumbs in his belt at either side, one foot hooked back on the rail so that his jeans pulled tight across his cock, and grinned.

He was the kind of man that other men made room for: large, loud, and violent. She took in the thick black hair, the muscled forearms with the Free Britain tattoo, the big hands and the flat belly and decided to have him.

He said something when she was close enough to touch him. She wasn’t listening. She was focused on the smell of his sweat. It spoke of health and aggression and an absolute need to get laid. He was plague free, one hundred per cent human and was bursting with testosterone. Perfect.

He was still talking. Asking her something. She stayed silent but made eye contact. When her left hand slipped under his shirt and pushed through his chest hair, his pupils dilated. When her right hand closed around his jean-clad cock she felt his pulse explode and wondered if he’d come on the spot.

At last, he’d stopped talking. He was over a foot taller than her so she had to push up, almost climbing him, to reach his mouth. She sucked in his tongue, held it for half a second between her teeth and then turned and walked away.

She’d gone less than half a step when she heard him move. He reached for her but the alcohol had slowed him and his erection made him clumsy, so his first grab missed her.

She turned to face him but still kept moving away from him towards the door. He moved faster, trying to put his hand around her waist. She grabbed him by the wrist, pulled the flat of his hand up against her breast; let him feel the hardness of her nipple and the weight of her flesh for barely a second. When she let go of him, he stumbled. She laughed and moved out of reach.

“Come back here, you cock-teasing slag!”

He didn’t sound like a nice man. He sounded angry and violent. Her sex moistened. She pushed out of the Pub and ran, fast enough to be convincing but slowly enough to make sure he saw her head into an alley bathed in the dark shadows that pre-figured the setting of the sun. The moon was already hanging fat in the sky above her. Its presence made her heart race. She needed to have sex and she needed to have it now.

The big Brit bruiser was strutting towards her, licking the knuckles of his clenched fists, ready to show her what a real man does to a cock-teasing slag.

She pretended to stumble, letting him catch up. He was no longer interested in talking. She could hear his heart pounding, smell the tart acid of his hate even more strongly than the musk of his lust. She let him land a partial blow with his huge fist, sending her to the ground, filling her mouth with metallic heat of her own blood.

“Please, don’t hit me anymore,” she cried, apparently struggling to get up onto all fours and looking back at him over one shoulder.

“You can have me,” she said flipping her dress up to display her raised arse.

He bent over her, both fists raised. She could his desire to break bones and bruise flesh warring with his need to fuck.

“You can have me if you’re hard enough and big enough. I bet you’re very big and very hard.” she said, at the same time ripping off the string she wore and using both hands to spread her wet labia wide.

She could almost see her scent hit him. His hands unclenched and he started to tear at his belt and his jeans. Briefly she saw his flesh rise up and then he was on her, over her, entering her, hot and hard and violent. Riding her back like a dog. Slamming into her, mercilessly.

This is what she’d needed more than air tonight. To be crushed beneath angry, straining flesh. She concentrated completely on his hot hardness forcing its way in and out her, crying out with every inward stroke as if she was being murdered, was literally dying for it.

Already she could feel the pressure building inside her, searching for escape. The man above her was just an animal now, fucking not because he could but because he had to. His hips seemed to be working his mind. Pushing and tearing, digging for his come.

She felt the change start when the first hot spurt of sperm spat into her. Her muscles tightened around him, squeezing him, milking him, refusing to let him go. The big man grunted in pleasure. His mind was coming back to him and his words started to flow, more a conversation with himself then her: “Yeh, you like being shagged by a real man, don’t ya? You like having British beef in ya. Slag like you can’t get enough. You don’t wanna let it go, do ya?”

Now it was her mind that was shutting down. The moment was upon her.

“What the buggering hell is this?”

The man’s arrogance was replaced by panic. He was struggling to pull out of her and not succeeding. When the change started, panic became fear in an instant.

She opened her mouth to howl her orgasm and felt her jaw lengthening. Her back stretched until it was arched at an impossible angle that allowed her to look up at the man above her.

He was trying to back away from her. Trying not to touch the thick pelt that now covered her. Only her grip on him held him in place.

The smell of his fear disgusted her. She released her hold on him. He fell backwards scrambling away from her.

Part of her wanted to be rid of him, to jump on his chest and rip out his throat. A smaller part of her knew that was wrong but couldn’t remember why.

With a graceful leap she landed on her prey’s chest. He turned his face away from her, exposing his neck. She could almost taste his blood. She opened her jaws, ready to rip and tear, when a high-pitched whistle sounded. She looked up. There were bright lights at the end of the alley. The sound of people running. Someone shouted “Lyra – don’t!”

Lyra. She remembered that name. It was her name some of the time.

Beneath her, the big man had fainted. He was no longer interesting. Except that she was suddenly very, very hungry.

“Lyra!” She looked up. Then someone shot her. Everything went black.

*

“Did I kill him?”

It was the first question Lyra asked when she woke. Her head ached and her mouth tasted like something had curled up and died there but she needed to know the answer.

“No,” Nathalie said, “He will have nightmares for a while and I doubt he’ll chase young women into alleys but he will live.”

Relief flooded through Lyra. Then another memory struck her.

“You shot me!” Lyra tried to sit up in bed but her head protested the effort.

“Actually, I shot you and then young Jenkins shot you,” Nathalie’s French accent made the word sound long and sexy, “We stunned you with a couple of darts.”

“A couple. More than one. No wonder my head is exploding.”

“Well, you looked hungry and you are always unpredictable after you have been laid.”

“I was not laid. The were-slut was laid. Which reminds me, how the hell did I get out? You knew I was in heat this week. I was supposed to be under guard.”

“You were. Jenkins was guarding you. You remember him. The clean cut young man who joined SCP last month.”

“The Berserker? The were-slut took on a Berserker?”

“No, even she would not do that. She was nice to him. He told me that you’d been so good the first few nights that he thought there was nothing to worry about. Apparently he’s never met a loup-garou before so he had no idea what a salope will do when she’s on heat, until you snatched the needle he was supposed to sedate you with and sent him into the arms of Morpheus.”

“Oh no. And he had to come and tell you that.”

“He did. And I did not kill him. And I let him shoot you. So everything is balanced.”

“Well thank God that that’s over for this month.”

“Get some sleep, wolfing. You’re off heat now but the moon will be at its fullest tomorrow. I will need you and your were shadow. We are going to hunt some monsters.”

Nathalie had been kind to make light of events in the alley but that both knew that if Lyra had killed the human without orders to do so, she would have woken in an SCP cell awaiting sentencing.

By necessity, the SCP was tolerant of the strange habits of its recruits but there were limits and Lyra had come uncomfortably close to breaching them. If she had done so, there would have been no trial, no publicity and no grave – just anonymous ashes thrown to the wind.

Before sleep claimed her, two thoughts occupied Lyra’s mind. The first was that she owed Nathalie and Jenkins a debt for those two darts. The second was that perhaps she-wolves only went on heat once a month because no one could survive having that much fun every day.